Childish Experiments
by Velvet Green
Summary: During one of Holmes’ experiments something goes horribly awry, leaving our favourite detective quite changed. Will he and Watson still be able to solve the case? - Caution: extremely silly premise. Consider yourselves warned…
1. It started with a bang

Childish Experiments

Chapter 1 - It started with a bang

**Watson**

It was a fine September morning as I descended the stairs a little later than usual, owing to a patient who had kept me up much of the previous night. Fortunately, the crisis was now past and I had left the man in the tender care of his wife, who was under strict instructions to call me if anything untoward should occur. As a result, I now found myself with an unexpected, if welcome, amount of free time on my hands which I planned to spend by taking a long walk through the city - a peek out of my window during my toilette had convinced me that the weather really was exceptionally splendid - and catching up on my writing for the Strand.

However, when I opened the sitting room door my mood was somewhat dampened by the thick cloud of blue smoke that billowed out to greet me, causing me to cough and search my pockets for a handkerchief. Once I had found one, I turned to send the creator of these fumes an accusing glare, only to find him enveloped up to the hips in his own creation and deeply immersed in some sort of experiment. At the sound of my greeting, he raised his head barely long enough to return a muttered "Good morning to you too, Watson," before his eyes were once again on the beaker filled with a light blue liquid that he was holding in his right hand and which was emitting the offending fog.

Being used to my friend's unsociable moods, I merely shook my head and sat down to the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had left waiting for me. With a healthy appetite - I hadn't eaten anything since being called to my patient shortly after yesterday's lunch - I took up my knife and fork and endeavoured to start on whatever our good landlady had prepared for us, only to find that both the bacon and the eggs had taken on a distinctly unappetizing blueish hue. With a sigh, I lowered the cutlery back onto the table. After all, I had no way of knowing just what it was that Holmes was analysing, and whether it would be safe to have for breakfast.

Pushing back my chair, I got up and wandered over to the table where Holmes kept his chemicals. Near its edge, there was a broad-bodied bottle that immediately caught my attention. I took it up, causing the liquid inside to slosh from side to side. Wrinkling my brow, I lifted my gaze to the beaker Holmes had now grasped in a pair of tongs - yes, undoubtedly the same colour - and turned my eyes to the bright yellow label that stood in stark contrast to the bottle's Robin egg blue contents.

Then, I very nearly dropped it all.

"'Dr. Edgeworth's Anti-Aging Elixir'? Holmes - surely you cannot believe in this rubbish?"

My friend gave a contemptuous snort. "Of course not, Watson. That the concoction you are currently holding is, as you so aptly put it, "rubbish", is exactly what I am trying to prove."

He took a step back, disturbing the smoke that was still swirling around him and making him by all means look like a man who was taking a walk at the bottom of the ocean. "It is simply abominable, Watson. Unscrupulous peddlers making money off of old ladies' credulity. It must be stopped."

I smirked. "Old ladies?"

Holmes must have heard something in my voice, for he raised his eyes to mine and pressed his lips together in a tight line before answering. "Mrs. Hudson's dear friend Mrs. Adderley came by yesterday after you had left. Apparently she feels 20 years younger since she has started taking it regularly". He turned his attention back to his chemicals. "She has convinced Mrs. Hudson to try it."

My smirk turned into a full-blown smile. There was no love lost between Holmes and Mrs. Adderley, who furnished her house according to her spiritualist's advice and was perhaps the only person I knew who would truly have burned Holmes as a witch - if she'd dared. Part of me thought our down-to-earth landlady only put up with her to annoy the detective whenever she'd had enough of him wrecking her house with his experiments and unconventional target practice habits.

Still smiling, I made my way through the usual clutter to my desk, disregarding the food still on the table - I for one would certainly not stake my health on the advice of Mrs. Adderley - and sat down to continue the manuscript of our latest adventure. As I sat, the client Holmes had taken on yesterday morning came to my mind. "What about the Winters case?", I asked Holmes, turning around in my chair to face him.

Irritated, he raised his head once again. "What about it? Watson, I have told you time and again that to theorize without data is a fatal error. Before the answer to my inquiry arrives, we can do absolutely nothing on that particular matter." Having spoken, he immersed himself once again in his task, the blue smoke meanwhile coming up to his shoulders.

During the next hour, I concentrated on my writing, my attention only broken by Holmes'sporadic exclamations over his experiments - apparently, he had not yet had any luck in his attempts - and by the fact that my thoughts kept returning to the pale but pretty Mrs. Winters as she sat on our settee with a distressed look on her face, now and then affectionately caressing the small toddler on her lap (the two older children, we had been told, had been left at home with the servants) while her husband told us of the vicious threats to leave London the family had received.

My concentration stayed nearly unbroken, that is, until a loud bang suddenly shook the room and the subsequent tremors forced me to hold on to my desk while I watched my ink pot topple over and spill over the morning's work, effectively ruining it.

However, this particular misfortune couldn't have been farther from my mind, for glancing in Holmes' direction, I had failed to behold him upright behind his equipment, a state of affairs which the ever-present smoke could only partly account for and which worried me greatly.

With a cry of "Holmes!" I started in his direction and upon rounding the corner of the table was brought up short by what I saw: A little boy, looking a bit dazed perhaps but by all appearances perfectly unhurt, who stared up at me with large grey eyes partially obscured by a thick shock of black hair.

"Watson? What are you shouting about so?", said a voice I was well acquainted with - though now it sounded an octave higher than it usually did. Then it continued, still irritated but now slightly unsure: "And why are you so tall?"

* * *

Loved it? Hated it? Is it worth continuing? Tell me! All comments highly appreciated.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, neither Holmes nor Watson belong to me. They're all ACD's.


	2. Facing reality

Thank you so much to everybody who reviewed the first chapter! This is for you:

Chapter 2 - Facing reality:

**Watson**

Once the fog had cleared a little - both the actual one in the room and the figurative one in my mind - and I felt a little more up to facing the situation, I took my first close look at Holmes as he was now (despite the overwhelming evidence, I still had great difficulties in bringing myself to call him either a 'boy' or a 'child', even in the privacy of my own mind). There was one thing that immediately stood out: Though my friend himself had, for lack of a better term, shrunk, something else had very noticeably not.

"You need new clothes."

At the sound of my voice, Holmes' head snapped up from where he had been contemplating his trousers, which had come to pool around his feet - this, however, not being a problem, as his shirt and waistcoat now reached to almost below his knees. For an instant, I saw something that might very well have been panic flash across his eyes before he schooled his features back into their customary expression of calm - a look that sat decidedly odd on his, as I would guess, about 10-year-old face.

Slowly, he lifted his arms, which were still clothed in the now grossly over-sized shirt, to me, as if he were about to present me with a particularly detestable piece of evidence.

"This is ridiculous", he intoned gravely, his own boyish voice nearly giving him a start. As no reply from my side was forthcoming - for once, words had completely deserted me - he continued, looking down at his woefully dangling shirtsleeves: "Obviously, this is some sort of terrible nightmare brought on by overwork, as you have always warned me about."

This sentiment, admittedly not unlike the lines along which I had been thinking, roused me out of the stupor I seemed to have fallen into: "Really, Holmes, if that is the case, how do you explain that I am here?"

He spared me a dark glance as he began to roll up his shirtsleeves. "That is exactly what I should expect you to be saying if you were a figment of my imagination, is it not?"

This time, I did not refrain from rolling my eyes - even if my friend's physique had changed, as the small, slightly dimpled hands that now emerged from the white fabric once more proved, his character evidently had not.

I am afraid that, for the next few minutes, I offered a fairly life-like imitation of a gaping fish while Holmes, with an extraordinary calm born out of denial, proceeded to divest himself first of his trousers, then shoes and socks, after having ascertained that any endeavor to keep these articles of cothing on would prove exceedingly pointless, all the while ignoring me as if he really did believe me to be, as he had so charmingly put it, "a figment of his imagination".

Only once my newly diminutive friend had vacated the sitting room for his own - why I could not begin to imagine, as he could not possibly own any clothing in a size that would answer his current needs - I managed to collect myself. First of all, I went to the windows and opened them wide to allow the remaining blue fog to dissipate.

I was just about to finish mopping up the ink on my desk when two things happened: Holmes returned to the room and, at the same time, I heard the front door downstairs open and Mrs. Hudson come in, apparently returning from her morning visit to the market, which explained why there had been no furious outcry from her in answer to the previous explosion.

Immediately, my eyes fixed onto the cigarette Holmes was holding in his hand and which he had obviously been smoking. "Put that out!", I hissed across the room, and, as he showed no reaction whatsoever, I continued: "You are a child! You cannot smoke!"

Now, finally, he deigned me with an aloof glance. "Neither am I a child, nor will I bow to the fancy flights of my imagination", he stated with conviction and sank into the chair he usually occupied, his bare feet dangling a considerable distance above the carpet.

My own imagination meanwhile was busy conjuring up Mrs. Hudson's reaction should she come in to clear off my breakfast and find instead a half-naked smoking boy of no more than ten years in her sitting room - never mind that said boy was actually her very grown up tenant of many years, Sherlock Holmes.

Already, I could hear her step on the stairs.

As the door started to swing open, I saw Holmes suddenly stiffen. He sat up, and his frantic gaze settled on mine. In his eyes I read that the imminent arrival of our landlady had - finally - convinced him that all this here might actually be happening. In one fluid motion, he thrust the cigarette into my hand and settled himself into the chair much more modestly, only to spring up when Mrs. Hudson entered.

Our landlady, to her credit, barely batted an eyelid as she beheld me, the boy Holmes, the mess around the table where the explosion had taken place, and the blue sheen that had settled on every available surface in the room now that the smoke, at least, had cleared out. I had not realised that we had tried the poor woman so much.

Instead of launching into a lengthy tirade - as without doubt would have been her right - she merely effected a slightly puzzled countenance: "Good morning, Doctor. I see you have a visitor?" Ah, yes. The child would be the only thing that would strike her as terribly unusual.

I put a hand on my friend's shoulder and had just opened my mouth to start explaining the situation when my friend forestalled me by answering himself: "Sherrinford Holmes. It is a pleasure to meet you. Uncle has told me so much about you."

As he spoke, Holmes extricated himself from me and moved towards Mrs. Hudson, offering her his hand. Clearly smitten by what she could only conceive to be an extremely well-mannered young boy - if strangely clad - she smiled at him indulgently and shook his hand. However, the lost look on her face indicated that she still seemed to require additional information. I could not blame her.

Turning around, Holmes came back towards me, mouthing something which looked suspiciously like "She must not know". My gaze went back to Mrs. Hudson, who still seemed to be waiting for some sort of explanation. I fervently wished Holmes had come out of his fit of denial sooner, as I myself felt wholly unfit for the task of making up a convincing reason for both Holmes' absence and 'Sherrinford's' presence. However, apparently I had no choice in the matter.

"Holmes has been called away on an urgent case and..." Now that the easy part was over, I faltered. Perceiving I was in trouble, Holmes turned around and gave me a pointed look, and suddenly, I had a stroke of inspiration: "The case concerns Sherringford's parents. They are distant relatives of Holmes. It was too dangerous to take the boy with them, so they have asked me to take care of him." There - that sounded vaguely convincing.

I was pondering what to do about Mrs. Hudson's still doubtful look - after all, this in no way explained the boy's current attire - when Holmes started pulling on my arm, appearing for all the world an excited boy who had just had an adventure: "Tell her about the cab accident, Doctor Watson!"

He must have seen from my bewildered expression that I had not been able to follow him this time, for turning around to face our landlady, he continued: "There was a cab accident, right in front of the station! And the suitcases all tumbled together and everybody got really dirty and...", here he stopped and looked down at his knobby, boyish knees, sticking out under his adult-sized shirt, "and now I don't have any clothes."

The pathos in his voice would have been enough to melt even the late and unmourned Moriarty's heart - evidently, even in his current predicament, Holmes was a match for any of the famous actors of our time. I just hoped it would be enough to keep her from questioning why, in that case, we had not clothed him in a dressing gown or at least something more suitable than an adult's dress shirt and waistcoat. After all, I had no desire to be taken up on charges of child abduction before the day was over.

Fortunately, my fears appeared to be unfounded, for at my friend's appeal our landlady's countenance softened at once: "Oh, don't worry, dearie. I'm sure the neighbours will have something for you." As she straightened up to face me, I saw Holmes visibly bristle at being addressed in this familiar way.

Any demonstration of mirth on my part would have to wait, however, as Mrs. Hudson now addressed me: "Their youngest son is about his size and has just left for school. I am sure they won't mind the boy borrowing some of his old suits for the time being." Having spoken, she turned to leave, first collecting what remained of my breakfast, taking in its blue and virtually untouched state. In the doorway she paused, bestowing the scorched spot where the explosion had taken place with a pointed glare: "You can tell Mr. Holmes that any damages will be added to his rent."

As soon as we heard the front door close, I let out the breath I had been holding and turned to my friend: "Whatever are we going to do about this?"

Holmes, who had been scrutinizing his child-sized hands and still seemed very put-out by what had happened this morning, not to mention Mrs. Hudson's treatment, raised his head: "Obviously, Watson, the most salient course of action now is to locate the mysterious Dr. Edgeworth - if that is his name - and question him on the particulars of his curious elixir."

Then, surveying his stick-thin arms, he proceeded: "The Irregulars, I believe, would be best suited for this purpose. I would be very obliged if you could contact them immediately."

He gave me a wry smile: "After all, they will hardly accept orders from someone who looks as if he is still tucked in at night by his mother."

--

_7 hours later_

"Cheer up, old chap, it could have been worse - it might have been one of those Fauntleroy suits!"

Holmes shot me a look that could have curdled milk from where he sat in his chair opposite mine. Fortunately, I had grown immune to that kind of look years ago, and therefore blithely continued: "Besides, it is deucedly hot today - those short pants must be comfortable!"

In reply, he scowled darkly at the broad-brimmed sailor cap with the black twin streamers resting on the table that matched the blue-and-white children's sailor suit which the neighbours had seen fit to provide and which Holmes was currently wearing. They had even made a point of making a gift of it, as their Henry was "much too old for such childish fashions" now that he went to boarding school.

After this brief moment of self-pity, my friend went back to fingering the two sheets of paper he held in his lap - the answer to the inquiries he had made regarding the Winters case, which had arrived during my brief absence earlier when I had gone out to set the Irregulars on Edgeworth's trail. He had spent the afternoon what I believed to be alternately contemplating said case and his changed appearance, and it was easy to see that neither pursuit had been particularly gratifying.

"So the answer must lie within the house?", I asked, more to keep him from the black mood that hung like a threatening cloud over his head than from any need to have the matter clarified yet again. If he noticed, he did not comment.

"Yes. My queries into the family's past have proven my initial deductions: They are all utterly unremarkable individuals. A clerk in a secure but minor government position and his charming wife who dotes on their three darling children. No conflict with the law, nothing out of the ordinary. Positively boring." He shifted in his chair, and I caught him throwing longing glances at the Persian slipper containing his tobacco. His small fingers twitched.

The boyish voice continued: "Then, an unexpected inheritance. They buy a mansion well above their previous means. Soon after, the threats start - 'Leave this place', 'If you want to prevent something terrible from happening to your children', etcetera, etcetera."

While he spoke, my friend had stood up and started pacing. I noticed that now, with his much shorter legs, it took him much longer to traverse the room. "Of course, those bumblers at the Yard achieve precisely nothing in the matter. I am called in."

He turned to me: "Watson, we need to see that house. As you said, any answer to this mystery must lie with the house, not the family. We will go tomorrow." I had my doubts as to this plan, but there was no opportunity to voice them as our landlady was about to enter the sitting room. Holmes disdainfully took up one of the tin soldiers the neighbouring family had seen fit to donate to the poor boy who had lost his toys in a cab accident and started fiddling with it, as he had done all that afternoon whenever Mrs. Hudson came in to ask him if he wanted a slice of cake or needed anything else. Apparently, the presence of such a young child had awakened a wealth of long-dormant motherly feelings in her.

However, this time she came for a different purpose, as we could see by the towel she had slung over her arm. Holmes' eyes visibly widened. "Now, Sherrinford, it is time for your bath, and then some hot milk and off to bed."

I have noted before my friend's remarkable affinity for the thespian profession, but I believe the panic in his voice was not wholly due to this trait when he muttered: "But... but the sun is still out!" Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently as she took his hand, as if she were dealing with an unruly child - which, from her point of view, I suppose she was. "It is nearly six o'clock and little boys have to go to sleep now."

As she led him from the room, Holmes threw me a helpless look the likes of which I had never seen on his face before - child or otherwise. Unwilling to desert my friend in his hour of need, I followed the pair.

We arrived at the bathroom, where our landlady had already drawn a hot bath and placed a little toy boat at the side of the tub - apparently our neighbours were desperate to get rid of all their children's assets now that they were out of the house. "Are you sure this is necessary, Mrs. Hudson? The boy seems quite clean to me."

Unfortunately, our landlady would not be deterred. "Nonsense. All children need their afternoon baths. Especially after such an exciting day." She smiled at Holmes, clearly referring to the story he had made up about the cab accident, for his afternoon had been distinctly unremarkable. Her attempt to placate him could not have had less of the desired effect.

Perceiving this, our estimable landlady changed the subject: "This would be a good time for you to move your things downstairs, Doctor." I blinked and turned my eyes from where I had been watching Holmes unenthusiastically fiddle with the drawstring of his sailor blouse. "Pardon?"

Indignantly, she went on: "Well, surely you do not expect the child to sleep in that criminals' den Mr. Holmes calls a bedroom? Why, the boy would almost certainly have nightmares! Besides, it is much too close to those chemicals - and you know what children get up to when nobody is there to make sure they don't get into trouble!"

At her confidential tone, I capitulated. Holmes' imploring gaze followed me up to my room, but I supposed that if he really wanted this to stop he could just swallow his pride and tell her the truth - after all, it was not me that had landed him in this situation.

With my nightshirt and a few other necessary toiletries in my arms I finally arrived back downstairs. For a while I stood in the darkened doorway to my friend's room, listening to the splashing sounds from the bath and Mrs. Hudson's mutterings about "family resemblance".

Silently, I gazed at the long rows of criminals' portraits lining the walls.

The criminals silently gazed back.

Yes. This was going to be a very long night.

* * *

Again, all comments and constructive criticism highly welcome and appreciated!


	3. Games people play

Chapter 3 - Games people play:

**Watson**

"You may let go of my hand now."

At Holmes' words, I gave a start - apparently, even today, the new boyish quality of my friend's voice still had the power to make me twitch. Giving a cautious glance over my shoulder, I made sure Mrs. Hudson's waving form had indeed left the doorstep before dropping the appendage in question. Overnight, the good woman had developed into a veritable dragon of motherliness, and it had taken quite an effort (not to mention half the morning) to convince her that it was perfectly safe for me to take 'Sherrinford' out to show him London. Now, I was loath to risk her retracting her permission by offending against her admonishment not let go of the boy in the London traffic while we were still in eyeshot of our lodgings.

Meanwhile, walking beside me, my friend was staring fixedly ahead, and even though, owing to his remarkable capacities for self-control, he did not show it, I knew the indignities of the morning and past night had to be wearing on him; besides, he had to be worried that his altered state might be permanent - I knew I was. As of yet, there had been no word from the Irregulars on the whereabouts of the mysterious Dr. Edgeworth.

I decided to initiate conversation: "So you are determined to visit the Winters' property today?" I stated, thereby returning to the conversation we had kept up during breakfast whenever our landlady wasn't coming or going, replenishing our supplies of food as a pretext to making sure 'the dear boy' was eating - before the meal, she had told me in no uncertain terms that he was much to thin in her view and in dire need of fattening up if he didn't want to end like his uncle. Holmes had been in no position to resist her attentions, and for once, I had felt absolutely no need to intervene. Perhaps this unwitting relapse into childhood might have its good sides after all.

My friend raised his face to mine: "Naturally. I have, after all, agreed to take on their case, and I will not let myself be deterred from giving it my full attention by this petty mishap." As he spoke, he ill-temperdly kicked a stone across the street, earning him a nettled look from the bookseller on the corner who had just come out to rearrange his wares and reminding me once again just how much he seemed a child to everyone else. Holmes' voice cut short my musings. "I say, Watson, there's a free cab - would you be so kind as to procure it for us?"

Once I had done so, my friend's mood further dampened by the cab driver's offer to bodily lift him into said cab due to his slight height, and we were on our way, he continued to explain his plan: "We know that whatever lies at the root of this problem must have to do with the house. Therefore, it is of imperative importance that I get a close look at the building."

At this point of his speech he turned to me, his small body fitting completely onto the narrow hansom seat. "This is were you come in. After all, we can hardly adopt our usual _modus operandi _due to the current external circumstances." He gave a wry smile and made a sweeping gesture downwards, being clad once again in the neighbour boy's sailor suit.

He continued: "Now, your role will be to distract the Winters' attention while I search the house for any... shall we say, unusual attributes. I will also try to garner some information from the Winters' children - they are my age, after all" - I marvelled at the equanimity with which he could pronounce this, no doubt due to his being mentally completely immersed in the case at the moment - "and more than once have I had occasion to perceive that children are often privy to information that remains hidden to adults. You on the other hand..."

Here I chimed in: "I will attempt to find out all the Winters know about the history of the house and the house itself. Besides, of course, keeping them out of your way." My friend gave me a tight smile. "Precisely, Watson. Them having bought the house so recently, it is rather unlikely that they can tell you anything of value, but one should not leave any avenue unexplored." Having spoken, he leaned back into the corner to fall into one of his habitual contemplative moods. If not for his small size and the comparatively tiny fingers worrying the lace of his sailor collar - indeed, it was a good thing that we did not have to return the hideous article, for it seemed certain to me that it would be completely unravelled by the time this case was finished - I could have entertained the notion that this was the outset of a case as any other.

We remained in this harmonious state until the cab drew up in front of a pair of iron-wrought gates, behind which I could just make out the front of a large, white-washed mansion situated in a beautiful, lush garden. It was a very desirable prospect, and I had no difficulty imagining that the more criminally minded among us would stoop to decidedly devious methods to attain it. After I had paid the cab driver - no change there - Holmes hopped down and rubbed his hands together in the familiar manner: "Watson, this case is beginning to grow on me." As I reached up to operate the bell announcing the arrival of guests, I saw the cab driver give the little black-haired boy standing in the street an odd look.

He was still shaking his head as he drove off.

--

_The mansion's nursery, later that day_

**Holmes**

This was without doubt the most execrable meal I had ever had the displeasure to attend. Not only were half the participants not adept in the use of common human cutlery - and among these I counted the children's nurse, a rather uncouth girl who was clearly a relic of the times the family could only afford substandard help - but the boy, Edward Winters, kept tossing peas in my direction whenever the adults weren't paying attention. Unfortunately, this was rather the norm, as Mrs. Winters was busy plying her youngest offspring with food the poor child clearly had even less intention than I to swallow, and it was obvious that the children had the nurse, a Miss Dean, firmly in hand.

Just as the little terror was launching another volley - and I, truth to be told, was beginning to contemplate retaliation - Mrs. Winters found the time to look up from her efforts. "Eddie, stop that, or there will be no dessert for you." Her distracted gaze wandered over to me before settling once again on the infant. While trying to balance a spoonful of carrots, she addressed me: "And you, Sherrinford, eat up, or there will be none for you either." Pah! As if I had even the slightest interest in overdone blueberry tart. At her mother's admonishment, Edward's elder sister, Susan, looked at me with eyes full of pity: "You can have some of mine, if you want." Wonderful. I now had the heartfelt sympathy of an eleven-year-old.

Despite my serious reservations - after yesterday's developments, everything seemed possible, especially if it was designed to spite me - lunch did eventually come to an end, and the whole merry band, minus Mrs. Winters who had packed the squalling infant into a perambulator and taken him for a stroll around the grounds, repaired to the garden. Here, the boy and I where set to insipidly kicking at a ball, I distracted by my attempts to inspect the facade of the house for anything out of the ordinary, he by his efforts to thoroughly trample the well-kept flowerbeds whenever Miss Dean was not looking - there was a criminal in the making if I ever saw one - while the nurse and her disciple engaged in the bizarre pastime of un- and redressing the girl's doll for no discernible purpose.

After what seemed like a very long time - I had been rather put out to be reminded that children's clothes made no provisions for the storage of watches - the inimitable Miss Dean decided she would rather spend the afternoon out of reach of the sun and ordered us to return inside, suggesting a game of hide and seek. Once again, I was reminded that I was in the company of imbeciles as the girl clutched the doll to her chest, loudly proclaiming that she and her Emily would at all costs hide together. My hopes that I could garner valuable information from these people were fading virtually by the minute.

However, at the nurse's proposal, a plan had begun to form in my mind. Finally, I would be able to undertake a serious exploration of the house - perhaps the day would not be a complete loss. I just hoped Watson was having more luck.

--

_One of the mansion's sitting rooms, at about the same time_

**Watson**

Hoping Holmes was having more luck than I, I turned back to our client: "So the offer came as a complete surprise?"

Mr. Winters lowered his glass. "Oh, yes. In fact, Mr. Dinsdale was quite adamant that the sale should happen as soon as possible." He leant back and stared pensively at the amber liquid he was swirling around in his snifter. "Now that you mention it, his insistence on an immediate commitment does strike me as rather singular - and the expert we contacted did say the price was rather below the usual market value of such a large property." He raised his head: "Do you think this has anything to do with the threats?"

With a gesture, I warded off the question. "That is for Mr. Holmes to decide. I am merely here to gather the evidence." At this, Mr. Winters sat forward in his armchair: "And when can we expect Mr. Holmes to be back? I do not wish to be impolite, but after all, it is him I have engaged, and my own case seems rather urgent to me."

While I could understand the fellow's desire to have this matter investigated by my friend himself, this was the third time he had asked after my initial excuses during our arrival, and his insistence to have a definite answer was starting to grate on my nerves. I shrugged noncommittally and gazed through the wide glass doors leading out onto a terrace which gave way to a well-kept, even lawn further down, where I had seen Holmes and the Winters children play, in Holmes' case in a rather lacklustre manner - and what had the Winters boy been doing in those flowerbeds? - not half an hour earlier. Now, however, they were nowhere to be seen. "I cannot say. He has assured me he will return as soon as possible."

Clearly not assuaged, our client merely treated the glass in his hand to a small grimace. I was saved from further debate of the matter by the sound of the bell. Both of us turned our heads to the door, and Winters had already made a few steps towards it when the butler entered. "Mr. Haverson is here, Mr. Winters. He says you were expecting him?" Mr. Winters gave a start, as if the appointment had quite left his mind. "Oh, yes. Please show him in, Travers."

Once the butler had left the room, Winters addressed me again: "Mr. Haverson is the lawyer in charge of the property. There are still some papers to sign, and he has agreed to come by today afternoon to settle the matter. It should not take long - I hope you are not too inconvinienced?" I lost no time in assuring him that I would be perfectly content in perusing his library for the time being, for which he readily gave me permission. Truth to be told, I was rather glad of the respite, not to mention the opportunity to do some exploring of the house myself.

As we waited for Haverson to enter, I wondered where Holmes might be now. Soon after we had arrived and been introduced to the two elder Winters children he had been whisked away to the nursery under the general agreement of the parents, and, as I could only guess, to his own strong disagreement, as this effectively ruined part of his plan, by the children's nurse, a healthy-looking young girl by the name of Miss Dean, whose robust appearance stood in stark contrast to Mrs. Winters' waif-like aspect. Not much later, the lady of the house had excused herself to go and take luncheon with the children, before taking the baby Daniel for a walk in his perambulator across the vast grounds. Mr. Winters and I had retired to the men's sitting room, giving me ample opportunity to carry out Holmes' instructions. So far, his predictions had proven correct - apart from the information about the curious behaviour of the previous owner, nothing I had heard appeared to me in the least bit suspicious.

I was torn from my musings by the arrival of the lawyer, an uncommonly tall, amiable looking man who was introduced to me as "Mr. Norbert Haverson" before he and Mr. Winters took themselves off to the study to settle their business. I was just about to leave the room in order to go in search of Holmes when the door opened and the man - or rather, the boy - in question appeared. After making sure we were alone, he closed the door after himself and sank into the armchair our client had just vacated, seeming ridiculously small in comparison to the grown man. Quite uncharacteristically, he let go a long sigh and stared darkly ahead. "I tell you, Watson, I shall be very glad when this insane business is over. Based on the data I have gathered so far it is a complete mystery to me how so large quantities of the population manage to survive their childhood."

As he spoke, my thoughts wandered over to my friend's erstwhile companions, and my alarm at his statement must have shown on my face, for he gifted me with a piercing glare before he answered: "Oh, never worry - they are quite alright. That silly thing Miss Dean is cowering beneath the back stairs in the servants' quarters, the girl is busy tinkering with her doll behind the curtain of one of the window seats in the nursery and that abominable ruffian of a boy is in the cellar, no doubt causing havoc for the servants." I blinked, then decided I really did not want to know.

Holmes left me no time to ask either way, as he immediately went on: "Now, what have you to tell me?" Listening to my report about the day's findings, the expression on his face grew ever darker, until finally he steepled his small fingers together, looking for once almost like the adult he actually was: "This is a fine conundrum indeed, Watson. Yes, I think the wisest course of action would be an investigation into the history of the mansion's ownership. There appears to be nothing more we can do here today. You will, of course, make our excuses."

Climbing down from the armchair, he turned to me once more: "One last thing - who was that fellow I saw our client with just now?" I was about to reply when the door to the sitting room opened, admitting Mr. Winters and the lawyer and effectively cutting short any meaningful conversation between Holmes and myself.

After having been introduced to "Mr. Holmes' nephew", the brunette man bent down, nearly having to fold double in order to accommodate to my friend's reduced height, and offered him a stick of liquorice he had pulled out of his coat pocket. "Probably conducting your own investigation - I bet you want to be just as famous as your uncle when you grow up, eh?"

Only by sheer superhuman effort I managed to wait until we had taken our leave and were safely on our way home in yet another hansom before bursting into laughter.

--

**Holmes**

I could not in the slightest condone my friend's sudden display of mirth. Not only had the day almost entirely been a capital waste of my time, it had also been one of the most humiliating of my life, and what more, I could only look forward to the following night in horror.

Yesterday, I had become more closely acquainted with Mrs. Hudson's motherly tendencies than I could have ever wished to be - in addition to the constant fussing and the degradation of having to take a bath in the middle of the afternoon, I had been forced to feign sleep for three turns of "Hush A By Baby" before the vexatious woman had finally left the room. If her behaviour this morning was any indication, tonight would not bring any substantive change.

These and other undesireable contemplations of mine were terminated by our arrival at the post office, where we disembarked - and if one more cab driver offered to help me in that particular endeavor again, I would find a way to revenge myself on the profession - and I sent Watson to dispatch a telegram that should throw some light on the matter of the mansion's previous ownership.

As I waited outside the building, I saw Wiggins come careening down the street towards me. I checked myself from giving any indication that I had recognized the boy, only to be rewarded by him nearly bowling me over in his haste to reach my friend, who was just in the process of leaving the post office. As I gingerly stepped down from the crate I had rescued myself onto - being ferociously scowled at by the shopkeeper for my actions - the two exchanged a few words - and coins - before the Irregular was once again on his way.

After making sure the boy had disappeared around the corner, Watson came towards me with barely contained excitement: "They've found him! They've found Edgeworth!" This time, I could join in in his high spirits, and we jubilantly made our way through the already darkening city towards Baker Street. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow, I would be rid of this awful curse.

Shortly before we came in sight of 221B, Watson took my hand, proving that the good chap was even more apprehensive of our landlady than I was. And, as it turned out, he had every occasion to be, for when we arrived, Mrs. Hudson was already waiting in the doorway, bestowing my friend with the reproachful look that was usually reserved for me. Watson visibly blanched, and I conjectured that perhaps it might have some advantages after all to be caught in a ten-year-old body.

And then my gaze travelled lower to the fresh towel she had slung over her left arm.

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As always, reviews, comments, criticism all extremely welcome and gratefully received!


	4. An edifying encounter

Sorry for wait - I know this took a bit longer than I'd predicted. Anyway, enjoy:

* * *

Chapter 4 - An edifying encounter:

**Watson**

The morning following our visit to the Winters' home, I was somewhat rudely awakened by an individual insistently shaking my shoulder. Disoriented, I blinked into the early morning light, then decided it was far too early to be up yet and, stifling a yawn, turned my face back to the wall. "Holmes, it can't be more than six o'clock - surely, whatever it is, it can wait?"

My friend's voice answered me. "I'm afraid not, Watson. I wish to get this business over with as soon as possible, and it appears you are rather more indispensable to me than usual at present." The combined high-pitched sound of said voice and and the realization of just how small the hand on my shoulder actually was served to recall to me the events of the last two days and I quickly sat up - only to recoil immediately when my sleep-blurred gaze settled on a rather unflattering picture of a bald, threatening-looking man, identified by the tag underneath only as "The Butcher of Soho".

I shuddered while I pulled back my blanket. "Really, Holmes, I cannot imagine how you are able to find any measure of restful sleep in this room - this is worse than the criminals' archives at Scotland Yard!" My friend merely snorted. "Very amusing, Watson. Now do make haste and get ready - I would prefer to arrive at Edgeworth's premises before he leaves to distribute more of that nefarious elixir among the unsuspecting populace." Having spoken, he turned around and swept out of the room, cutting a by far less impressive figure in his knee-breeches than he would have under normal circumstances. As I watched his retreating back, I sighed - two days without the respite of tobacco had certainly not improved his temper.

My friend's plan of a swift departure, however, was almost thwarted by the appearance of Mrs. Hudson, who swept into our sitting room not long after I had finished dressing myself. After gracing me with a cursory greeting and a scathing glance - apparently, she had not yet forgiven me for yesterday's transgression -, she bent down to Holmes' current level and started straightening his collar. While she spoke, I could see his mouth tighten in disdain at her action.

"You are going to be a good boy and keep me company today, aren't you - not going to go off gallivanting around at all hours, like some people?" The last part, with the accompanying withering look, was clearly aimed at me. Yes, it would definitely be some time before I was in our landlady's good graces again.

While I endured her scorn, my friend's mind was already at work trying to contrive a way to evade the fate of having to spend the day in our kitchen, being fussed at by Mrs. Hudson. Finally, he seemed to have found an appropriate excuse. Effecting an air of the most exquisite innocence, he looked up at her wide-eyed: "But Mrs. Hudson, I can't! Doctor Watson has promised to take me to Hyde Park today - we're going to feed the swans!"

As he spoke, he had started bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet excitedly. At the sight of this convincing display of youthful exuberance, a small smile stole onto our landlady's features, and her resolve crumbled noticeably. She sent me another disapproving stare but then turned back to "Sherrinford" and relented: "Well, alright, I suppose a bit of fresh air can't hurt." From the tone of her voice, it was evident that she had only yielded in order to avoid disappointing the little boy she seemed to have grown quite fond of.

At this thought, a sudden flash of horror came over me as I realised that, if all went well, I would return tonight without said little boy - a rather undesirable prospect, if the dressing-down I had received last night was anything to go by. Really, one would have thought that I, not my friend, had been turned back into...

The sound of Mrs. Hudson voice brought me back to the present: "Doctor? Doctor, are you listening? Really, one does fear to leave the child with you - you are so absent-minded lately, not at all yourself..." Before I could respond, she had tutted once, reached out to ruffle Holmes' hair - despite making the effort, he had not managed to evade her in time - and left the room, presumably to prepare our breakfast.

As the sitting-room door swung shut, I was suddenly not sure anymore whether I should be more worried about what would happen if our efforts didn't succeed - or about what would happen if they did.

--

Not quite an hour later, we stood on a busy street corner in one of the shadier parts of London and stared at the building Edgeworth was supposed to reside in according to the information Wiggins had given me. Across the street before us, three floor's worth of crumbling red brick, grimy windows and chipped paint rose into the dark, overcast sky. To tell the truth, it did not look particularly confidence-inspiring, and the weather, which had taken a decided turn for the worse since yesterday, did nothing to soften this impression.

"Holmes, what will we do if he can't help you?" When no immediate answer was forthcoming, I turned my head to my left, blinked once when I was offered an unobstructed view of the corroding drainpipes of the house next to us, realised my mistake and lowered my gaze. "Holmes?"

My friend clutched the bag of breadcrumbs meant for the swans Mrs. Hudson had gifted him with tighter to his chest and unclenched his jaw: "Once again, I must ask you to refrain from theorizing without data. Now pray come on." Before he had even finished speaking, he had started weaving his way through the morning traffic, discarding the brown paper bag behind the back wheel of a parked carriage on the way.

By the time I had caught up with him on the other side of the road, he had already tried out the doorbell, found it broken, and settled for knocking instead. For a while nothing happened. I was just about to try my own luck when there was a sudden commotion behind the front door. At length it slowly creaked open, and an elderly woman peered up at me suspiciously from beneath an old-fashioned lace pinner. "What d'ye want?"

I chose to ignore this impertinent mode of address. "Good morning. We are here to see Doctor Edgeworth. Is he in, Mrs...?" "Baird. Mrs. Baird." She muttered something underneath her breath, peeked down at Holmes, up at me again and finally opened the door fully. "Well, I suppose you're not a copper, having the boy with you and all."

As I took a moment to digest that statement, she turned around and preceded us into the building. It would be a lie to say that its interior was a vast improvement over its exterior. The hallway was littered with a large slew of household paraphernalia in varying states of disrepair, and the whole place seemed in urgent need of the application of a broom, a washing rag and some water.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and motioned upwards. "He's up there - second floor, first door on the right. Though I don't know what business a gentleman like you would have with the likes of him." Then, before I could even introduce myself properly, she had disappeared into one of the rooms off the side of the hall, probably her own parlor.

While I was still standing there, pondering these new developments, Holmes brushed past me. "Let her go, Watson - it's him we want, not her." With that, his small frame bounded up the rickety stairs in front of me. I followed much more carefully, dreading what we might find behind the door that now slowly came into view above me.

When I arrived upstairs, Holmes was already waiting on the second floor landing, the inner nervousness he must have been feeling only betrayed by the fact that his left hand kept straying to a piece of loose thread hanging down from his sailor collar - as I had predicted, it had already started to unravel.

On the ride here, we had agreed that, barring complications, I would be the one to do most of the talking, since - for obvious reasons - Holmes was currently rather unfit for the position of spokesman. Now, I stepped forward, sharing one last doubtful look with Holmes, and gave a sharp knock. Almost immediately, there came an answering grunt from within, then somebody was fiddling with the lock and the door swung open.

On first view, nothing about the individual introducing himself to us as Doctor Edgeworth gave the impression of being particularly noteworthy to me. I am sure that, had I been Holmes, I would have been able to deduce his plans for the day by the way his cravat was pinned or the quarters he frequented from a glance at the mud on his trousers. As I am not, however, Sherlock Holmes, I merely noticed that his cravat was tied rather shoddily and that the amount of dirt on his trousers would have been enough to make Mrs. Hudson give us a thorough scolding had either of us come home to Baker Street that way.

Banishing all thoughts of our landlady's ire from my mind, I focused my attention once more on Edgeworth. From the way his eyes kept darting apprehensively back and forth between me and my friend, he was clearly suffering from the same misapprehension that had afflicted his landlady as to my occupation. Well, in that respect, the man could be helped.

Once I had enlightened him as to our identity, apologizing for our abrupt and unheralded visit, he appeared much more willing to let us enter his flat. While we shuffled into the rather cluttered room and foraged through it in search of some style of seating accommodation, our host unceremoniously took up an armful of papers and dumped them on the floor, uncovering a red plush sofa whose better days were incontestably behind it.

While I sat down, I took a second look around the room and became aware that, despite the overt chaos, this seemed to be a kind of sitting room. I almost resolved on the spot never again to bother Holmes about his comparatively neat tidying habits.

As I shifted to relieve the pressure of a loose spring that was digging uncomfortably into my posterior, I noticed my friend's newly too-short legs swinging underneath him as he perched on the ledge of the settee, a habit he had recently taken up. This was as sure a sign of his patience wearing thin as the pointed glare he was bestowing me with. Accordingly, I declined Edgeworth's offer of refreshments and decided to come straight to the heart of the matter.

"We are here about your Anti-Aging Elixir...", I had scarcely vocalized this sentiment when the elder man gave what can only be described as a joyous squeak and sprang up.

"You are?", he repeated, gleefully rubbing his hands together and giving us an alarmingly wide grin. I answered him with a weak one of my own, not sure whether to take this as a positive or a negative sign, and resumed my explanation: "Well, you see.."

Unfortunately, Edgeworth did not seem particularly inclined to listen to what I had to say. Instead, he launched into a lengthy tirade about the Elixir's effectiveness (something Holmes and I, of all people, surely did not need a lecture on), apparently believing me to be a prospective costumer.

By the time he had finished extolling the virtues of this particular product and moved on to something he referred to as his "Vanish-Me-Varnish" - making me shudder at the contemplation of what other helpful fluids he might have in circulation - we had, by our host's invitation and to my relief, vacated the derelict sofa and proceeded to the adjoining room, which had the appearance of being a surprisingly well-kept laboratory.

There, without slowing the incessant flow of his words, he rounded a big oaken work-table occupying most of the room and laden with all sorts of chemical equipment, including a Bunsen Burner currently employed in heating a large beaker containing, of all things, a blue liquid and emitting the corresponding smoke. Remembering when I had last seen this particular arrangement, I decided immediately to keep as far away from whatever substances we might find in this room as I reasonably could.

Holmes, on the other hand, did not seem to harbour similar inhibitions. In the time it had taken Edgeworth to locate a footstool, climb on it and start rummaging through an overhead shelf on the far side of the room, my friend had closed the gap between the table and himself and started to examine a row of test tubes, a rather comical sight, as his shoulders were barely level with the edge of the table.

I was just about to prevent any further exploration - after all, I had no desire to be the one to explain to Mrs. Hudson why the boy Sherrinford suddenly happened to be the baby Sherrinford - when the man responsible for this mess, evidently alerted by some noise the detective must have made, paused in his ramblings and threw me a look over his shoulder: "You might want to keep the lad away from that."

Instantly, Holmes ceased his investigations, the humiliation of being talked about rather than talked at manifestly more effective than anything I could have done. Before I could so much as snigger at this, my friend's impatient gestures reminded me of my more pressing responsibilities.

Dutifully, I began again: "Doctor Edgeworth..."

"Oh, do drop the title - it merely makes the merchandise sell better." Well, at least we knew now that Holmes had been right in that point. This, however, did not help with the fact that I was slowly starting to despair of ever getting a word in edgewise with the man.

In the meantime, our host had finished rifling through his cabinets, producing a rather large jute sack as the reward of his efforts; at once, my eyes were drawn to one of its corners, which was intermittently leaking blue powder. Robin-egg blue powder.

I took a deep breath, preparing to brave Edgeworth's prattle (who now had gone over to discuss payment) yet another time, when the inevitable happened and Holmes' sorely tried patience snapped at last. Suddenly, his boyish voice filled the room in a most un-boyish manner: "For heaven's sake, man, we're looking to reverse it, not to buy more of the blasted thing!"

Thankfully, such brashness from a child finally succeded where all else had failed and shocked our host into silence, which I swiftly took advantage of.

"He is right - we are indeed not looking for the elixir as such, but much rather for a remedy."

The elder man scratched his balding scalp forlornly. "Reverse the effects? To tell the truth, sir, you're the first person to ever ask me that."

As Holmes gave an exasperated snort beside me, I strove to make Edgeworth see the seriousness of the situation. "The matter is fairly urgent. There has been a rather unusual accident, you see," at this point, I heard Holmes give another snort, "and we really do need something to counteract the elixir's consequences."

Our host still did not seem completely convinced. "What kind of accident could one have that would require them to counteract youth?", he asked, his voice coloured by a shade of incredulity that made me wonder whether he feared us to be spies from a rivalling business. Clearly, at this point, only the truth would set us free.

While I was still reluctant to lay bare the details of our little problem, I was sure Holmes had already behaved atypically enough for a child to merit suspicion. I was just about to start explaining when I noticed Edgeworth's eyes wandering from me over to my friend and then back to me again.

Daring to hope I would be spared the duty of having to expound on so absurd an affair, I gave a slow but firm nod.

Edgeworth's eyes wandered back to Holmes and rested on him for a long time.

Then, with an air of amusement entirely unbefitting the situation, he perplexedly declared: "Well, that's never happened before!"

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All comments and constructive criticism very welcome!


	5. Ever more edifying

Chapter 5 - Ever More Edifying:

**Watson**

I should have known then that, from here on, things were liable to only get worse.

I was still mentally debating the man's nerve - this was not quite the reaction I had hoped for, to say the least - when Edgeworth strove to add insult to injury.

Leaving the bag with the powder to happily spread his merchandise over part of the table, he came towards us, or rather towards Holmes, for his eyes were fixed doggedly on the little boy at my side.

"Well, I'll be - I didn't know it worked that well!", he exclaimed excitedly and circled around my friend in the manner of a dressmaker admiring the latest fashion from Paris on a mannequin.

Holmes, for his part, appeared to take these new developments surprisingly well, though I strongly suspect it was more a question of being rooted to the spot by the sheer horror of the situation than any genuine compliance.

Finally, Edgeworth came around to stop in front of him again and bent down, presumably to have a better vantage point from which to peer into his juvenile face. Then, aiming a curious hand towards my friend, he let out a small, incredulous chuckle.

The sound of it broke the stupor into which Holmes seemed to have fallen previously, and he hastily took a step backwards to get out of the man's reach, just to collide with a side table behind him atop which rested a neatly stacked pyramid of small boxes of a deep purple colour.

"I would hardly deem this a laughing matter!", he stated indignantly, his voice nearly drowned out by the resultant noise of said pyramid crumbling to the floor, sending what looked to be little purple boiled sweets rolling everywhere.

Edgeworth spared the mess barely a glance as he advanced further on my friend, and I lost no time in interjecting myself into the conversation before things got completely out of hand.

"Really, I don't think any of this is helping the situation!"

As I spoke, both Holmes' and Edgeworth's heads swivelled in my direction, their eyes widening. I firmly believe that both of them had, up until that point, completely forgotten about my presence in the room.

Since neither of them volunteered a reply - Holmes was suddenly very busy adjusting his sailor collar, which had apparently come loose during the near-scuffle, and Edgeworth seemed to only just now have noticed what had happened to his architectural display - I turned to our host: "Maybe we should go at this from the root - where do you obtain your wares?"

Edgeworth instantly raised his eyes from the ruins and puffed out his breast. "I don't 'obtain' them - all my products are invented by me, and me alone, and produced right here in this room. Of course, you would know this if you had read the information provided on the label of the elixir."

I refrained from pointing out that there had been little opportunity to closely study said label due to it being turned completely unintelligible when his home-made elixir had seen fit to cause an explosion that had nearly wrecked our sitting room, and ploughed on.

"In that case, perhaps looking at the particulars of the elixir's formula would be useful?" I was afraid that this request might be perceived as too bold - Edgeworth had been taking the affair remarkably well as it was - but to my surprise the elder man, instead of being aggravated, seemed to deflate before my very eyes and began to look positively sheepish once the words had left my mouth.

"Well, there is a slight problem with that...", he stated uncertainly, his eyes darting back and forth between me and my friend nervously and making me wonder what on earth could be the matter now - surely my appeal hadn't been a terribly unusual one, considering the circumstances?

At my and Holmes' expectant looks, he hesitatingly continued, stabbing his arms into the air by way of emphasis: "It's like this - I simply can't remember the formula."

My friend paused mid-way in his efforts to gingerly step out of the remains of the pyramid and stared at Edgeworth, aghast: "You can't remember? You truly mean to tell us you have been selling these home-made concoctions with every potential to cause havoc among the unsuspecting and you can't remember what is in them?"

At this, our host appeared to be rather offended: "Well, it's hardly my fault!", he declared petulantly and stretched out his right arm to point at the pile of purple receptacles Holmes had now finally left behind him, "It was the Forget-Me-Nows."

"The Forget-Me-Nows?" The way this conversation was progressing, I was seriously starting to doubt the man's mental state.

"Oh yes. One of my more popular inventions. Quite useful. Suppose you've forgotten the wife's birthday - never fear, just give her one of Edgeworth's Forget-Me-Nows, and everything will be right as rain in no time. I always keep a ready supply around in case the police come by. Really, the official forces - no sympathy at all for the struggles of an up-and-coming business! Why, just last week -"

Appalled as I might have been, I decided to disregard the moral implications of this latest intimation and stop our host's tirade before I completely lost control of the conversation. "And this pertains to the matter at hand how...?"

Edgeworth gave a start at being so rudely interrupted. "I was just coming to that." Throwing Holmes, who had begun to wear a distinctly amused expression, a puzzled glance, he went on: "About this time last month, I was working on the improvement of the elixir when I felt the urgent desire for a humbug. Unfortunately, I must have confused the two - it really is quite embarrassing..."

I was sure it was. "Haven't you written it down?"

"Pardon?"

"The formula - surely you keep a journal or something of sorts to record your findings?"

Bristling, he bestowed me with a look as if I were rather dull. "Certainly not. The self-aid business is crawling with spies - I shouldn't have a minute of peace if I let something so valuable simply lie around as easy pickings for any competitor." He stopped a moment to let his eyes wander around the room as if he suspected to discover a member of said despised occupational group lurking under the table or perhaps behind the wallpaper. Then he leant forward slightly.

"To tell the truth, Doctor, at first I was half convinced you were something of the kind. But, of course, what you just told me is by far too ridiculous to be anything but true - no spy would risk his only chance of gaining information on a cock-and-bull story like that."

Having reached this flattering conclusion, he drew himself up in a self-satisfied manner. "So, as you see, the formula is quite beyond our reach. Dreadful tragedy, too - sales were just beginning to pick up." He shook his head mournfully as Holmes and I looked on, horrified.

"And this is all you have to say to the matter?", my friend burst forth at long last, striking the side table with one of his small fists and sending more Forget-Me-Nows scattering in every direction.

The motion roused our host out of his brief bout of self-pity, and his face took on a thoughtful aspect.

"I suppose we could try to counteract it with one of my other products...", he ventured and was bustling about the room once again before I could object - after all, his products were what had brought us into this situation in the first place -, pulling me behind him and stacking my arms with all sorts of brightly coloured boxes, bottles, and tubes while prattling along merrily, explaining the merits of his various creations.

When he had finally finished rooting through those cupboards he hadn't yet upset when looking for the powder of the elixir not too long ago, the pile in my arms was stacked so high I could barely make out the room, never mind whatever our host had dug out and was now holding up triumphantly.

Judging the added clutter would hardly matter - between the leaking powder, the stumbling traps the Forget-Me-Nows had turned into and the mess Edgeworth had caused during his search, the hitherto mostly spotless room was beyond salvation anyhow - I simply dumped the whole kit and caboodle on the oaken work-table and turned to look at our host's prize.

It turned out to be a rather inconspicuous phial containg a dark green liquid. Our host regarded it with a look of pride a freshly-baked father might have bestowed on his new-born.

"Here it is - one of my newer inventions. I intend to call it the "Juice of Ginormity"!"

In the silence following this dramatic declaration, my eyes met my friend's eyes across the room. They seemed to say what I was thinking: Surely, the man could not be serious?

Oblivious to our more than lacklustre reaction, Edgeworth continued: "Just one drop, and a tiny tulip bulb turns into a beautiful flower practically overnight. Mind you, I've never tried it on humans before, but it should do the trick."

Still beaming at the contemplation of his own ingenuity, he lowered his gaze to us, evidently expecting us to break into accolades of approval. Needless to say, he was fated to be disappointed.

It was Holmes who spoke up first: "Most certainly not! I will not serve as a laboratory rat for one of your misguided experiments!", he announced firmly, his boyish voice clearly coloured by indignation.

Edgeworth appeared unaccountably crestfallen at this assertion. "Well, if you insist - you could always just wait for it to wear off, you know..."

I had to swallow at this pronouncement. "Wear off? You mean it isn't permanent?"

Apparently we had deeply affronted our host by our failure to share in his enthusiasm, for his answer sounded distinctly annoyed. "Of course it isn't permanent! None of my mixtures are. That would be deucedly bad for business, wouldn't it. Just imagine - a permanent youth elixir! I ask you - who would ever come back to buy more? Why, I'd be out of business in a fortnight!"

I believe that at this point Holmes and I heaved a dual sigh of relief. Truly, I had never encountered a more difficult individual than Mr. Edgeworth.

"Why didn't you say so right away?", I asked, feeling much better for the knowledge that I would not have to spend the next number of years raising my friend under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Hudson, his parents and uncle having mysteriously disappeared on their trip never to be seen again.

In the meantime, our host seemed to have gotten over his disappointment. "You didn't ask, did you?", he stated, not unkindly, and making an abortive attempt at clearing up the mess in the room, "The elixir's effects should wear off within the week, depending on how much of it you used."

As he spoke, a change came over his face and he turned towards my friend. "I say, how did you manage to transform yourself so in the first place? It's certainly not what the elixir was conceived for."

Watching Holmes, quite uncharacteristically, fumble around for a reply - after all, Edgeworth wasn't the only one with an embarrassing story to tell - I decided that this conversation had gone on long enough, and was unlikely to yield any more information of value; not that it had been particularly beneficial to begin with.

Letting go an almost theatrical sigh to capture our host's attention, I pulled my pocket-watch out of my vest and scrutinized it closely. "I am most sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, but we really do have to go now", I stuffed the watch back into my pocket, "Come on now, Holmes - we better hurry up or we risk running late."

Our host's face had begun to fall noticeably as I was speaking, but my joy at this easy retreat proved short-lived, for he suddenly brightened up again, as if something important had just occurred to him. "Ha - I knew those names sounded familiar! Yes, of course, how couldn't I see it before - Why, Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, and his biographer, under my very roof!", here he transferred his gaze to me, "You know, I've read all of your little accounts. Though I must say, some of them appear to be rather bizarre..."

I swallowed down the audacity of a man like him calling my literary efforts bizarre, muttered something non-committal and started towards the door as fast as politeness would permit, being careful to avoid tripping on an errant Forget-Me-Now and closely followed by my friend, who, judging by the fact that his now smaller frame overtook me half-way, was just as eager to leave as I was.

As our host showed us out, another thought seemed to strike him and he stooped down to Holmes' current height: "Have you ever thought about lending your face to advertising? I have recently been thinking about expanding, and..."

It was hard to tell by the dim light of the hallway, but I could swear my friend's face turned a shade whiter before he hastily stammered out: "Watson, we'll be late for that appointment", and was gone down the stairs.

--

As we quit the building, we found that the clouds had made good on their earlier promise, and a sight drizzle greeted us that quickly turned into a deluge once we realized we had left our umbrellas comfortably resting in the hall stand at Baker Street in the morning's rush.

After turning out unsuccessful at the arduous task of procuring a cab - all those available having apparently been taking by other refugees from the weather such as ourselves - there remained no alternative but to brave the journey back on foot. Holmes turned his face heavenwards in distaste at the prospect, but then, had I been the one to have to wade through puddles coming up to my ankles in short pants and stockings, my reaction would have been much the same.

Our trip itself was unremarkable but for Holmes being splashed liberally by passing cabs, his slight height making him all the more vulnerable, and his berating me on my "atrocious acting skills". Near Regent Street, we chanced upon an assemblage of Irregulars seeking shelter against the torrential downpour under a hotel awning, the porter evidently having fled - was it just me, or were those boys eyeing my friend with a certain degree of hostility? -, and I took the opportunity to thank them again for their quick work in locating Edgeworth and to remunerate them accordingly.

And so it was that, just after noon, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to find a very wet grown man and a thorougly drenched little boy on her doorstep. She took one look at us, then let out a shriek of displeasure and pulled Holmes inside, nearly shutting the door in my face in her haste.

"Really, Doctor, what were you thinking - running around with the child in this weather!", she reproached me once I had followed into the house, while towelling my friend's hair dry with one hand, spraying droplets of water left and right, the other holding his upper arm in a vice-like grip to forestall any escape attempts.

I paused in the brushing-down of my own clothes, but before I could offer up an answer, she spoke on: "Anyway, you have a visitor - he's been upstairs for almost an hour now. I told him I did not know when you could be expected to return, but he insisted on waiting."

Taking this as a cue to escape from any further remonstrations on her part, I left Holmes, who was still vainly trying to extricate himself from her ministrations, and made my way upstairs while the sound of our landlady's voice floated up the stairs behind me: "Oh, stop squirming, Sherrinford - now, I trust you had a good time feeding the swans?"

As I was climbing the stairs to the sitting room and hoping there would be a good fire blazing in the hearth to dispel the residue chill, it occured to me that Mrs. Hudson had failed to mention who said visitor was. Well, never mind that now - I would find out soon enough.

I entered, the noises from below indicating that my friend had finally managed to break free, and took a few steps into the room before coming up short at the sight of a portly figure in front of the fireplace, its back to me.

At the sound of the door opening, the man turned around, and suddenly Mycroft Holmes was facing me from across the sofa. He had just opened his mouth to greet me when the pitter-patter of small feet upon the stairs announced a new arrival.

The elder Holmes' mouth closed again as his eyes wandered to a spot slightly behind and to the right of me before he finally opened it once more to utter two syllables, all colour leaving his face:

"Sherlock?!"

* * *

Now, who really thought I could resist throwing brother dearest into the mix?

Yes, I didn't think so :)

.

Special thanks go out to KCS for sending a plotbunny my way (yes, it's begun to spawn ;)), and of course to all my lovely reviewers!

And, as always, all and any comments very welcome!


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